I’d rather feel something for real than pretend it’s not what it is.
I wager that most human beings do five things a day they cannot logically explain.
No patience. No kisses. No hugs. Just a tweezers and some rubbing alcohol, and a stinging sensation that never goes away.
I think back to the last thing Dave said to me and try to imagine what escaping oxygen would look like. It looks a lot like drowning.
There is something megaical about the world at night. Sitting at the dining room table, sipping a glass of iced tea, I can totally understand why Dad gets up so early. Minutes seem to last longer when the rest of the world is asleep.
I find myself thinking that it would be nice to be able to fix my life the way I’m fixing the patio. I wonder, is there enough terracotta-colored cement to fill the hole where my father should be? Or where my mother’s spine should be? Or where my guts should be?
When they torture me, they show they’re weak. When I survive, I show them I’m stronger.
I can’t stop myself from reaching for the bottle that’s under my seat. I’ve gone all night without a sip, but it’s not about being addicted. It’s about being told what to do my whole life and doing it and then losing everything anyway.
You know that saying about how you don’t know what you have until it’s gone-I already did know what I had, and now that she’s gone, I know even more.
I knew not to give the best of myself to the worst of people.
But that’s a side effect of alcohol, isn’t it? Stopping to think about other people is not on the bar menu.
Dude, what matters is if you’re happy. What matters is your future. What matters is that we get out of here in one piece. What matters is finding the truth of our own lives, not caring about what other people think is the truth of us.
I place us where we are a happy couple who are madly in love, and we are kissing the way people kiss on their wedding day. With joy and relief and love. Without guilt. Without Shame.
Everybody’s always looking for the person they’re better than.
Only you can allow yourself to be angry.
I didn’t think about anything past tomorrow because anything past tomorrow was just like cloud busting – it depended soley on the person looking at the clouds and it could rain any minute.
I was also built from delusional optimism and folly.
How can we say nobody’s perfect if there is no perfect to compare to? Perfection implies that there really is a right and wrong way to be. And what type of perfection is the best type? Moral perfection? Aesthetic? Physiological? Mental?
The simplest answer is to act.
We are all made from star dust and we will all return to star dust, like a cosmic palindrome.